Cole's back was drenched in sweat, beads of perspiration rolling down his forehead.
He sat up with a jolt, feeling the dampness beneath him. The night had been plagued with strange and chaotic dreams.
A sharp pain flared along his right side, as if a knife were slicing into his flesh, the sensation rising and falling in waves. Reaching back, he touched the cloth bandage wrapped around him—it was completely soaked.
Undoing the cloth, he found it stained a deep red with blood, thick yellow pus seeping between the layers.
His face turned deathly pale in an instant, fear creeping into his chest—his wound had festered.
Cole thought about seeking a maester, but before he could act, a messenger arrived, summoning him to Kevan Lannister.
After a brief hesitation, he decided to follow the guards to see Kevan first.
The Lannister looked unwell, the strain evident in his expression. He had just received word that his son had been captured by the North.
Noticing Cole's pallor, Kevan still asked with concern, "You don't look well, Ser Cole."
Cole forced a faint smile, his voice hoarse. "I didn't sleep well."
Kevan rose and poured him a cup of wine before spreading out a map before them. "How many men do you think each gate will need?"
Cole studied the map of Riverrun's defenses. It was crude, lacking precision—nothing more than what scouts had managed to glimpse from a distance.
"They'll move together. Dividing our forces is only a ploy to lure them out. The elite must be concentrated in one place. I can't wager on which gate they'll use, but they'll aim for our weakest point."
He paused, considering the options, then added, "Perhaps we should make a weakness appear more obvious. It may cost us some men, but it will serve its purpose."
Kevan frowned slightly but quickly seemed to recall his brother Tywin's ruthless pragmatism. He nodded.
The two continued to refine their strategy until noon. When they finished, Kevan invited Cole to stay for dinner, but Cole was still preoccupied with finding a maester.
When the maester finally examined his wound, he let out a heavy sigh. "It hasn't healed properly."
"We may need to resort to cauterization," the maester said after a moment of thought.
Cauterization—Cole suppressed a shudder. Would fire even help him? He shook his head. "Use strong liquor to cleanse it again, Maester Olenna Tyrell."
"I'll need to drain the pus first," the maester replied.
"Of course. Use hot water as well."
The maester nodded, and Cole sent a servant to fetch boiling water. The boy, Munda, had been assigned to him by Kevan.
By the time the wound was cleaned, Cole was as pale as a corpse. The maester grimly informed him that the flesh had begun to rot and used a knife to carve away the dead tissue.
Once the wound was treated, Munda brought in a bowl of boiled pig's blood. Cole simply gestured for him to proceed.
He slept through the afternoon, exhaustion overtaking him. When he finally opened his eyes in the evening, his strength had somewhat returned, and the pain in his back had lessened.
Stepping out of the tent, he ordered Munda to summon several captains of the Flame Guard.
One of them, Duoqi, arrived clad in Northern-style armor—something Cole had instructed him to procure.
Duoqi was renowned as the strongest warrior of the Painted Dog Tribe. He was a skilled fighter with a gentle disposition, following Cole's every command without question. During raids, he neither fought for spoils nor claimed plunder, earning the respect of his people.
Cole glanced at them and, seemingly out of nowhere, asked, "Has anyone observed the moon?"
The captains exchanged puzzled looks. Who would think to watch the moon?
Then, one of them hesitated before speaking. "My king, there is a boy in our tribe who claims to know something about it."
"He always says the moon is full of gold and beautiful women."
Cole nodded. "Bring him to me."
Beside a roaring bonfire, Cole ordered Munda to roast half a piglet while he poured wine, sharing it with the captains of his guard.
"The next battle will be the most crucial in our fight against the Northerners," he said, his voice steady. "Duoqi, have you gathered the armor and banners?"
"Don't worry, King," Duoqi replied. "The brothers are all wearing the clothes of the Northerners now."
At that moment, the man who had spoken of the moon was finally brought before Cole. He was thin and clad in ill-fitting armor bearing the sigil of the North. Judging by the quality, he might have been of noble birth.
Cole wasted no time. "Which night will the moonlight be at its strongest?" he asked directly.
The man launched into a long-winded monologue about the moon, its myths and legends, but Cole had little patience for such talk. Even so, he chose to keep the man close.
Over the next few days, Cole's wounds improved significantly. The sutures held, and though the maester treating him mentioned that some flesh remained darkened, the infection had not worsened. When he prodded the wound, it still ached, but not enough to hinder him.
There was much to be done, and Cole handled many matters personally. His responsibilities were too vital to entrust to others.
Kevan Lannister had assigned him an elite force, warriors sworn to obey his command without question. The knight leading them had been ordered by Kevan himself to follow Cole's directives, even at the cost of his life.
Kevan had little patience for the nobles' complaints about Cole. In truth, he shared their disdain. A wild knight who called himself the king of barbarians—it was laughable. But Kevan was not blind to talent.
The boy had a mind for war. That much was undeniable. He had been educated in the ways of the nobility through his time with House Lannister and could easily distinguish fools from those with true ability.
And this plan—the one they were about to enact—was Cole's. Kevan had watched him weigh every detail, calculating with precision.
To be honest, he admired the young knight's mind. Cole was willing to take risks, but his reasoning was sound. The plan had a greater than seventy percent chance of success. Even if it failed, it would not be a devastating loss.
Kevan recalled the night he had first told Cole that Edmure Tully was in command at Riverrun. The boy had merely smiled and, with quiet confidence, declared, "If Edmure Tully is in charge, then the gods are on our side."
That smile still lingered in Kevan's memory. He could only hope Cole was right.
The next morning, golden sunlight pierced the horizon like a thousand spears. The soldiers of Riverrun, weary from the night's watch, prepared to change shifts when a disturbance rippled through the Lannister encampment. The garrison under the castle stirred, and within moments, a messenger hurried toward the inner keep.
Edmure Tully soon arrived at the tower, accompanied by several river lords. From the battlements, they looked down to see the Lannister forces shifting their formation.
"What are they doing?" someone asked, frowning.
Before long, the enemy army had split into three separate groups. The realization dawned on the defenders—they were attempting to lay siege.
Laughter broke out among the Riverlords.
"These Lannister fools," one sneered. "They dare to divide their forces?"
"With so few men? Utter stupidity."
"We should strike now," another suggested. "Teach them a lesson before they realize their mistake."
But Edmure hesitated, shaking his head. Since his previous capture at the hands of the Lannisters, fear had taken root in him. He dared not take risks, not even with the castle's cavalry.
The knights of Riverrun had long harbored doubts about his leadership, murmuring that he was too timid, unfit to command. But with Lord Hoster Tully bedridden and too weak to stand, there was no one else to lead.
And so, while the Lannisters set up their siege camps, the defenders of Riverrun did nothing but watch.
Meanwhile, in the Lannister camp, Cole stood among the ravens, feeding them. It was a habit he had picked up during his time at the Wall. He caught one, pricked it with the tip of an arrow, then tied a message to its leg, sealing it with the sigil of House Umber.
For the past few nights, he had been watching the sky with the man who spoke of the moon. Despite his eccentricity, the man had an uncanny understanding of its patterns.
This wasn't Earth, and Cole dared not apply the same logic he once knew. But after days of careful observation, he had discerned a pattern.
He was certain now—the waning moon would come the day after tomorrow.
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